


Downfallen, scattered

by valiantfindekano



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:33:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantfindekano/pseuds/valiantfindekano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon survives Nirnaeth Arnoediad and comes to Maedhros. An AU that is far less happy than it would seem. Contains politics, angst, a bit of sex, insults, and more angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downfallen, scattered

The first messenger that came to Himring was not truly a messenger at all. Fingon would have called him a coward; he had not been trying to come to Himring, but had been picked up by Maglor’s rearguard as he tried to flee south and east, and it was only the stories that he told that brought him audience before the lords.

He was little authority, though.

“My eyes are authority enough,” the man insisted. Maglor laughed (it was not a joyful sound and had more the qualities of a bark), and reminded him that they, not him, needed the proof; any idiot with a tongue could lie, and they had no time for lies.

“I’ll tell you what I know, then.” The soldier shifted uneasily on his feet; one of Fingon’s, presumably, though Gondolin was a possibility as well. Either way, it did not seem as if he had much experience dealing with stern-faced commanders.

“I was wounded early on in the fight,” he began, raising a hand covered in brown-stained bandages, which matched the limp he walked with. That part of the story would at least seem valid. “The rest of the battle I could only watch, though when they fell back, I came too.”

Coward. Maedhros and Maglor exchanged a glance. But then, they had all run in the end, so who were they to blame him?

“What happened?” Maglor prompted.

“The High King’s banners are down,” the man said. “He is dead, and the King of Gondolin is dead, for neither of their standards were among those to retreat.”

* * *

“I would not despair just yet,” Maglor offered, once the messenger had been dismissed. Maedhros did not move. “An official note will come, and we may know the truth then.”

“If there is anyone to send it,” Maedhros answered, turning aside.

The man had not been the first to say that Fingon was dead; there were whispers among his men too. No one could say for certain, but no one hoped, either, and it was more likely that their King’s body was still on that field, picked over by orcs and carrion-birds.

Maedhros almost wished he still had the faith to offer a prayer, but a prayer from his lips could not have offered Fingon any favours even if he did. That would damn him more assuredly than any of his deeds.

* * *

But there was another missive to arrive. This one came all the way from Nargothrond.

_Hithlum is fallen,_  it read.  _Barad Eithel is no more. Valar save our King—signed, Orodreth, King of Nargothrond._

“Which king does he mean?” Maedhros hissed. “This tells us nothing!” It was a long way for such a short message, but if the roads still stood, they could not be safe; he would concede that sending a note containing many details wouldn’t be the wisest choice. But to make the effort at all—could he not have added a name? That would not be too grievous if it reached the wrong hands, for it was probable that their Enemy currently knew more than they did themselves.

“Is it possible,” Maglor wondered, “that he does not know himself?”

“Then why send the message now?”

Maglor shook his head. “Araresto is no great king himself; you already know that.”

“Nor is Turukáno.” Maedhros sighed. “There’s been nothing from Gondolin either.”

“As ever.”

* * *

 

And then there was nothing—no further word, personal or official, came to their ears regarding the fate of High King Fingon, or King Turgon of Gondolin, or anything else detailing Orodreth in Nargothrond.

“We should be gone by next week,” Maglor finally said.

Maedhros nodded.

* * *

 

It was neither Maedhros nor Maglor that spotted the riders first. One of the sentries stationed on the west-wall noticed the ten of them hurrying eastward; they bore no standards, but it was clear that they had not come to attack.

The command was sent out for the gate to be drawn up at their approach, and the lords were sent for immediately.

Maedhros met the news with the same measured indifference that he gave to everything now. He did not hasten to meet them, and they had already opened the gates when he finally came to examine them.

There was no uniformity about them; most of the riders, in fact, wore little armour, suggesting their hope had been in swiftness, though for what reason, and where they had come from, remained a mystery. The tall man at their head was unrecognisable to Maedhros, but beside him was one of Fingon’s lords—

Then his gaze flickered to the dark-haired man beside him. His hair had been swept back into a single large plait, revealing where it peeked out from under his armour an unsightly brown-stained bandage across his shoulder and neck. There were dark circles under his eyes, mud on his face and clothing, and none of that was a moment’s distraction when his blue eyes sought out Maedhros’ grey.

Something Maedhros had been trying to hold back threatened to break free. He took a breath and rushed forward, reaching Fingon at the same moment as the tall rider did. Fingon refused both of the offered hands, but it was to Maedhros his gaze went first when he dismounted.

“I would have sent word,” he said, voice cracking.

Maedhros drew him into a tight embrace, caring little for whoever was looking on in that moment.

* * *

 

Fingon looked ready to collapse, but he refused to be taken straight to one of the guest rooms. Maedhros sent for food and water to be brought to him, then sat him down in one of the less austere rooms of the fortress.

“I can bring a blanket for you,” Maedhros offered. “If you need healers—”

“You may send both when we finish talking,” Fingon replied, though Maedhros raised an eyebrow at the way he draped himself over the chair. Fingon might not have been one for excess formality, but he did not look a king at the moment, legs stretched out in front of him and his back hunched.

Maedhros poured a glass of water for each of them, passing one to Fingon; if his cousin noticed his hand shaking, he was polite enough not to mention it.

“You knew I was alive?” Fingon asked after taking a sip. Maedhros turned his chair around the corner of the table so they might face one another.

“Everything I heard said otherwise,” he admitted. “But if you are alive, then your brother must be as well? I have heard that you both fell, and that it was only you, and that it was only him.”

“Turukáno is well,” Fingon answered tersely.

Maedhros waited for him to elaborate, but he seemed unwilling to say anything more at the present time. He bit his lip. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Once, that question from Fingon’s lips would have been entirely innocent. This time, it sounded much more like a challenge. “We were betrayed,” Maedhros told him warily. “I didn’t know. I would have stopped them if I’d known.”

Fingon gave him a tired look. “Must we talk about this now?”

It was Maedhros’ turn to stay silent.  _Yes,_  he thought. “But I heard you were dead,” he added when it became clear that Fingon wasn’t willing to speak first.  

“I was alone,” Fingon mumbled. “Alone, save for one of my guards, and all I could see were our enemies in all directions. There were balrogs.”

“I saw.” Maedhros had not, in truth, been very far away—not close enough to unite their armies, but Fingon seemed to suggest there had not been a coherent army to unite at that point anyway.

“I prepared to face them,” Fingon continued. “My guard pushed me aside. I don’t know what happened, exactly, but my brother’s men were there—I had not seen them—they took me among their lines, wouldn’t let me leave. I was angry at first, but they said my brother was fallen. It wasn’t until we’d cleared the field that I realised that was a lie.”

“So you joined the retreat to Gondolin.”

Fingon set the glass down, propping his elbow against the table and sinking his face into his hand. “I wish I had not. Hithlum is…”

“Fallen. I have heard.” Maedhros touched a very hesitant hand to Fingon’s shoulder. It was brushed aside.  

* * *

 

He waited for Fingon to come to him. For a while, it seemed that he would not, and Maedhros thought he saw the sky beginning to lighten when the soft knock on his door finally came. He rose from his writing desk (most the papers cleared days before) and moved to unlatch the door, still struck by the dark circles beneath his cousin’s eyes.

“You should be resting,” he murmured.

“I know.” Fingon kicked the door shut, sliding an arm around Maedhros’ waist a second later. Maedhros leaned down even as he stretched up onto his toes, their lips coming together.

Sometimes he begged Fingon to be rougher; Fingon usually refused. Tonight Maedhros did not beg, but his cousin’s fingers pressed down with bruising force of their own accord, the bites against his lips drew blood, and Maedhros was no longer sure he was pleading for  _more_  when the words slipped from his mouth.

* * *

 

Fingon was staring at Maedhros’ cracked, dry lips the next morning. Maedhros ignored it.  

“What little of my host survived was with me as we retreated. They were almost more relieved to see Gondolin than my brother’s men were.” Fingon set his jaw when he stopped talking, his narrative drawing to something of a close. “But… they are content to stay there. None of my words could convince the majority that their place was out in the field, which I concede I cannot wholly blame them for.”

Maedhros inclined his head; he was agreed on that. But still, Fingolfin’s sons did not control the majority of the Ñoldor, titles of High Kings or not. “What of Nargothrond?”

“Well. Still standing.” Fingon seemed inclined to say nothing more, however, and Maedhros quirked an eyebrow; he knew when his cousin wasn’t telling him something, for Fingon had never been any good at concealing his thoughts.

“Orodreth owes you fealty,” Maedhros stated. “You won’t have lost his support.”

Fingon sighed. “I don’t know where I stand with Orodreth,” he admitted. “He is not disloyal, I think; I sent messengers to him along with those of his men who came with us to Gondolin.”

“Messengers? Findekáno, if you doubt his support, why are you not there with him now, instead of bemoaning your failures here with me?”

Fingon’s eyes flashed. “He is not the only one whose support I have had reason to doubt.”

Maedhros recoiled.

“I told you,” he said carefully. “Their treachery has cost me the battle—”

“Cost you?” Fingon snarled. “You speak of costs? My kingdom is gone because of your misplaced trust. My people are dead and enslaved, those who were once my loyal supporters no longer believe me fit to rule, and you would pity yourself for failing to reclaim your damned gems?”

Maedhros clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. “If you still doubt my loyalty to you, repeat the last part of that, and ask yourself whether I had anything to gain from betrayal.”

Fingon slammed his hands down against the table, rising forcefully from his chair. “You cursed, orcish bitch,” he hissed. With a swift movement, he swept the maps and letters off the top of the table and onto the floor, grabbing one leaf that remained and crumpling it into a ball; it bounced off Maedhros’ chest harmlessly despite the force with which Fingon threw it.

* * *

 

Maedhros was awoken by a familiar pressure at his side. Fingon was still mostly clothed, to his relief; he wasn’t sure he wanted another night like the last time.

He shuffled slightly until their faces were aligned, noses nearly brushing. Something was off about Fingon’s face; there wasn’t much light by which to study it, but Maedhros wondered if he had been crying.

“I’d be better off dead,” Fingon whispered.

A chill ran through Maedhros’ body. “No.”

“I would be happier if I was dead.”

“No,” Maedhros repeated, firmer this time. He remembered the agony of waiting for official messages, having to consider carrying on without Fingon, the images that plagued his mind of Fingon’s body lying somewhere on the battlefield…  

“We would have no High King,” Maedhros stated.

“The title would pass to my brother.”

“We would have no High King,” Maedhros repeated. That caused a tiny smile to appear on Fingon’s lips, though Maedhros hadn’t meant it as a joke.

Fingon sighed a moment later, though, shuffling so he could bury his face against Maedhros’ neck. “I’m not a good one anyway,” he mumbled.

_No,_  Maedhros agreed, though he would concede it wasn’t an easy position to be in right now. Fingon was King of a splintered kingdom, and even were the distance not so great, and the loyalties not so divided, they wouldn’t have the strength to resist their Enemy any longer. Fingon had his chance—and he lost it.

_My fault,_  Maedhros knew, but what point was there in apologising now? Apologies wouldn’t undo the destruction he’d caused.

He let out an unhappy breath.  


End file.
